Christmas Sweets

by Joanne Fluke

  How odd. He was just sitting there like a lump, his thermos in his lap.

  Was he so drunk that he slept through this whole disaster?

  “Wake up, Scotty!” I hissed.

  But he didn’t move a muscle.

  I went over to shake him awake, and that’s when I saw it—the sharp metal snowflake ornament plunged in his heart.

  For once, Scotty wasn’t dead drunk on the job.

  This time, he was just dead.

  Chapter Nine

  So much for keeping a low profile.

  Before I knew it, the cops had shown up on the scene, and I soon found myself sitting in the mall’s security office, shivering in my wet clothes, Prozac snoozing peacefully on my lap. Across from me sat a freckle-faced young cop who looked less like an officer of the law than a boy scout on steroids.

  “So you’re the one who first discovered the body,” he said.

  “Right,” I replied, staring at a rebel cowlick popping up from his copper colored hair. First the freckles. Now the cowlick. Good heavens. I was being questioned by Huck Finn.

  “Notice anyone else near the deceased before you walked over?” Huck asked.

  “No, nobody.”

  “Can you think of anyone who wanted to kill him?”

  Could I think of anyone who didn’t want to kill him, would be more like it.

  But I wasn’t about to get an innocent person in trouble. Surely, the Conspicuous Consumption security department would have the whole crime captured on their security cameras.

  “Nobody liked Scotty,” I said, “but I wouldn’t go so far as to accuse someone of murder.”

  “What about you?” asked my freckle-faced inquisitor. “How would you describe your relationship with the deceased? Were you on friendly terms?”

  “Not exactly,” I confessed.

  Now Huck started rifling through a small pad, brows knit in concentration.

  “According to your co-worker, a Ms. Gigi Harris,” he said, reading from his notes, “you were quoted as saying, in reference to the deceased, I’d like to strangle him with his own sleigh bells.”

  Oh, for crying out loud.

  That’s what I’d told Gigi the day of Scotty’s meltdown.

  I couldn’t believe she actually felt the need to share that little tidbit with the authorities.

  I was sorely tempted to rat on her in return, but unfortunately, she was the only one I could think of at the moment who actually seemed to like Scotty. Loved him, in fact.

  “It’s true I said I wanted to strangle Scotty, but I didn’t really mean it. It was a figure of speech. And besides, Scotty was killed with a Christmas ornament. Not sleigh bells.”

  “Uh huh.” Huck nodded dubiously, making a note on his pad.

  “On another matter,” he said, “is it true that your cat is responsible for the mess over in Santa Land?”

  At the sound of her name, Prozac’s eyes fluttered open.

  “Well, yes,” I confessed. “I should have never taken her in to get her photo taken. It’s just that I thought she’d look so cute in those reindeer antlers—”

  “You put antlers on your cat? Don’t you know cats hate wearing costumes?”

  Prozac shot him her patented Little Orphan Annie look.

  You can’t imagine how I suffer.

  “What a little sweetheart,” he said, reaching over to scratch her under the chin.

  My God, was there no one on this planet who could see her for the demon feline she was?

  “You can go now,” Huck said. “But from now on, take care of your cat.”

  Prozac wiggled happily in my arms.

  That’s telling her, officer!

  “And one more thing,” he added as I got up to go. “Don’t leave town.”

  Don’t leave town??

  Oh, hell. Isn’t that what they tell murder suspects?

  * * *

  Prozac was an absolute angel that night—rubbing herself against my ankles and gazing at me goo-goo eyed. Stuff she normally saves for strangers.

  She knew she’d been a bad cat and was desperately trying to ease her way back into my good graces.

  Usually all it takes is the touch of her soft fur against my shins for my heart to melt. But not that night.

  I was steamed. I mean, here I was—a murder suspect. All because of Prozac.

  Whoever killed Scotty clearly had taken advantage of the fiasco in Santa Land to plunge that snowflake in Scotty’s heart. A fiasco that never would have happened in the first place had it not been for the antics of my mischievous feline.

  “Honestly, Pro,” I muttered as I climbed into bed. “Sometimes I wonder why I ever adopted you.”

  She hopped in bed right after me, eyes wide as saucers.

  Hey, I know what’ll make you feel better. Rubbing my belly for the next half-hour or so.

  She rolled spread-eagled on her back, waiting for the rubbing to begin. But she waited in vain. Ignoring her belly, I reached for the remote and turned on House Hunters.

  Finally she got the hint and shot me a dirty look.

  Well, if that’s the way you’re going to be—

  With that, she leaped down from the bed and stalked off to the living room.

  Usually in these little tiffs of ours, I’m the first to crack, jumping out of bed and running after her, begging her forgiveness with ear scratches and kitty treats.

  But not that night. That night I was just too darn mad.

  I watched TV for a while, then after the 3,768th couple in the history of House Hunters had chosen a three-bedroom, two-bath house with an open floor plan, granite countertops and stainless steel appliances, I turned out the light.

  Without Prozac cuddled next to me, it was hard to fall asleep, but I’d be damned if I went running after her.

  I’d finally managed to drift off when out of nowhere I felt someone shaking my arm.

  My heart began beating like a bongo.

  Someone had broken into my apartment!

  “Lance?” I called out, hoping it was him and that he’d used the key he knows I keep under my flower pot.

  “No, it’s not Lance,” a woman’s voice replied.

  Suddenly the light snapped on and I saw the old lady in the holly berry scarf from the mall. The one who thought Prozac was a bat. There she was, standing at the foot of my bed. Wearing the same velour jog suit she’d worn that afternoon.

  “Who are you?” I asked. “And how did you get into my apartment?”

  “I,” she said with a toss of her scarf, “am your fairy godmother.”

  “What?” I blinked in disbelief.

  “But you can call me Hazel.”

  “My fairy godmother??”

  “Hey, some of us wear jog suits and bunion pads. Live with it.”

  Yikes. Somehow this nutcase had followed me home and broken into my apartment. I tried to reach over to call 9-1-1, but my hand felt like lead. I simply couldn’t get it to move.

  “You said you wondered why you ever adopted your darling kitty,” Hazel was saying. “Well, now you’re about to find out what your life would be like without her.” She snapped her fingers. “Voilà! You are now a cat-free woman.”

  Honestly, the old gal was certifiable.

  “Let’s go see what life is like without Prozac, shall we?”

  With that, she took me by the hand, and led me to my living room.

  I looked around and, indeed, Prozac was nowhere to be found. Not snoring on the sofa. Not curled up next to P.G. Wodehouse on the bookshelf. Not trolling for leftovers in the kitchen.

  “Where is she?” I whirled around to Hazel. “What have you done with her?”

  “I haven’t done anything with her. You never adopted her, remember? And I’m sad to say, it hasn’t seemed to work out very well. See for yourself.”

  She pointed over to the sofa.

  Holy cow. I almost fainted when I saw myself, sitting on my couch, staring dully into space.

  “Life’s pretty lonely f
or you now,” Hazel said, “with only your philodendron for company.”

  She pointed to a wilted philodendron on my bookshelf.

  “You call it ‘Phil’ and pet its leaves, but it’s not the same. It’s not Prozac. You’re so lonely, you’ve even started naming your socks.”

  I looked over at Lonely Me on the couch. And damned if she wasn’t right. I was talking to my own socks!

  “Hi, Jack! Hi, Jill!” I heard myself saying. “How’s it going?”

  Oh, Lord. This was beyond pathetic.

  “Let’s get out of here!” I wailed. “I need to see Lance.”

  I ran out of the apartment, Hazel puffing to keep up with me, and banged on Lance’s door.

  Seconds later, he opened it, a puzzled look on his face.

  “Yes? Can I help you?”

  “Lance. It’s me. Jaine!”

  But he just stared at me blankly.

  “Don’t you see?” Hazel crooned in my ear. “You never made friends with Lance, because Prozac wasn’t here to dig up his geraniums. So he never came knocking on your front door to complain. And you never invited him in to make amends over margaritas.”

  “Lance and me—not friends?”

  At which point he slammed the door in my face.

  “Apparently not,” Hazel said. “C’mon, I’ve got some other things to show you.”

  Suddenly I found myself on the sidewalk outside my local dry cleaners.

  “What’re we doing in front of Jiffy Clean?” I asked.

  “Look closely,” Hazel said.

  “Omigosh. The windows are all boarded up.”

  “A shame, isn’t it?” Hazel tsked. “They went out of business because you weren’t there to bring all the clothes Prozac threw up on.”

  “But Mr. Jiffy was such a nice man!”

  “Oh, well,” Hazel said with a bright smile. “What does it matter? At least you’re saving on dry cleaning bills. Now c’mon. Let’s go shopping.”

  And with a snap of her fingers, we were in my local supermarket.

  “What are we doing here?”

  “Just follow me,” Hazel said, leading me to the cat food aisle.

  “Look,” she said, pointing to the rows and rows of cat food. “Notice anything missing?”

  “Omigosh! There’s no Fancy Feast.”

  “They went belly up years ago, what with Prozac not around to eat their inventory.”

  “Poor Fancy Feast!” I moaned. “Poor Mr. Jiffy! Poor Prozac!” I burst into tears. “To think, she was never even born!”

  “I didn’t say that,” Hazel said, wagging a finger in my face. “I just said you never adopted her.”

  “You mean, Prozac’s alive somewhere?”

  “Indeed she is.”

  “Can I see her?”

  “Are you sure you want to? You might not like what you see.”

  Oh, God, what if my poor little angel was being mistreated somewhere? I’d find some way to bring her back to safety!

  “No, no! I must see her. Take me to her right now.”

  “Okay, if you say so.”

  Another snap of her fingers, and we were walking up the path to an enormous Spanish hacienda styled estate.

  “Where are we?”

  “Bel Air, California. Birthplace of the one percent.”

  Suddenly we were in what I can only describe as a designer showcase bedroom, replete with pink satin linens, priceless antique side tables, and Persian rugs on gleaming hardwood floors.

  And there, perched on a pink silk chaise longue, was Prozac, noshing on a Limoges plate of bacon bits and caviar.

  “Prozac!” I cried out.

  But she didn’t even look up.

  “She can’t hear you,” Hazel reminded me.

  “Her new owner must be awfully rich,” I said, “to have such a fabulous bedroom.”

  “Actually, this is Prozac’s room.”

  “She has this room all to herself?”

  “And a personal maid, too.” Hazel nodded.

  Just then, an impossibly tall blonde with a flawless complexion and figure to match, came drifting into the room on a cloud of designer perfume.

  “Tinkerbelle, sweetie!” she cooed. “How’s mommy’s little angel?”

  “Tinkerbelle?” I cried. “She doesn’t have a silly name like Tinkerbelle! She has a perfectly sensible name—Prozac!”

  But once again, I was not heard, as the blonde joined Prozac on the chaise longue and scooped her up in her arms.

  “Was the caviar fresh enough for you, sweetums?”

  Prozac let out a satisfied belch in reply.

  “Are you happy, darling?”

  Prozac looked up at her with loving eyes.

  Am I ever! Thank God I’m living here with you and not in some crummy duplex with a part time Santa’s elf!

  “Prozac,” I cried, “you can’t mean that! Think of all the fun times we had together! Think of the furniture you clawed, the pantyhose you ruined. Think of the back scratches, the belly rubs, the hair balls in my slippers!”

  But Prozac just went on purring in her new owner’s arms.

  “Oh, Prozac!” I wailed. “Prozac! Prozac!”

  Suddenly I was choked with tears, so choked I could hardly breathe.

  And that’s when I woke up from what had to be my worst dream ever and realized Prozac’s tail was draped across my nose.

  Gently I removed it, and swept my precious kitty in my arms.

  “Oh, Pro, honey. I didn’t mean what I said. Adopting you was the happiest day of my life!”

  Prozac looked up at me with enormous green eyes that could mean only one thing:

  Yeah, right. Whatever. So when do we eat?

  Then she tucked her furry little head under my chin and began to purr. And I knew then that all was right with the world.

  Except for that pesky little murder, of course.

  Chapter Ten

  It took them two days to restore Santa Land to its former glory, and when it was up and running again, Barnaby had taken over Scotty’s shift, working from nine in the morning till nine at night. Which he didn’t seem to mind at all.

  “What can I say?” Barnaby confided to me between ho-ho-hos. “I love performing, even if half my audience is still teething.”

  Needless to say, Scotty’s absence wasn’t missed a bit, and Barnaby reigned happily over a tension-free, tequila-free Santa Land.

  In the bad news department, however, it turned out that, due to faulty wiring in Conspicuous Consumption’s electrical system, the security cameras were short-circuited by the sprinklers when Scotty was killed.

  Which meant there were no surveillance tapes of the murder. Or the murderer.

  Zippo. Nada. Nothing.

  Which meant I was still a suspect, still unable to leave town.

  As much as my parents drive me crazy at times, I was not about to pass up my annual visit to see them in Florida for a week of coddling, cuddling, and fudge on tap 24/7.

  And who knew how long it would take the cops to wrap up the case? So I made up my mind to stick around and give them a hand. They didn’t know it (and you might not, either), but I happened to have solved quite a few murders in my day, action packed tales of adventure and Chunky Monkey binges listed at the front of this book.

  And so the morning after the murder, I was ensconced on my living-room sofa, chomping on a cinnamon raisin bagel, going over my list of suspects.

  There was Molly, Scotty’s scorned lover. And Corky, who’d threatened to kill Scotty if he called her “Porky” one more time. There was also Gigi, Scotty’s secret squeeze, but for the life of me, I couldn’t see why she’d want to knock him off. (Unless she’d caught him cheating on her with some other elfin cutie.)

  Finally, as much as I hated to consider it, there was Barnaby. After all, Scotty had exposed him as a fraud in front of a whole crowd of Christmas shoppers. Barnaby had laughed it off, but maybe he was more upset than he’d let on.

  You can imagine how dis
tressed I was my first day back at work when I saw him talking with Detective Huck Finn.

  My heart sunk. What if Barnaby was about to be arrested?

  Sidling up to where they were chatting in the employees’ locker room, I heard Huck tell Barnaby, “You’ll be happy to hear we checked out the movie theater, and several witnesses confirmed seeing you there the morning of the murder.”

  Yay! Barnaby had been at the movies at the time of the murder!

  “Looks like you’re in the clear,” Huck said.

  “But you’re not,” he said to me as he walked by. “So don’t leave town.”

  It was all I could do not to yank on his cowlick.

  * * *

  With Barnaby safely off my Suspect List, I turned to my two top contenders:

  Corky and Molly.

  I decided to start my investigation with Scotty’s spurned lover. I remembered how Molly told Scotty to drop dead in the employees’ locker room.

  Now I wondered if she’d turned her suggestion into a reality.

  Before I could think of an excuse to stop by her office, I was summoned to see her on my lunch break.

  “It has come to my attention,” she said, looking up from a stack of papers on her desk, “that it was your cat who was responsible for the disaster at Santa Land the other day.”

  “Yes, I’m so sorry. I should have never brought her to the mall to have her picture taken.”

  “It wasn’t easy,” she said, “but I talked Mr. Halavi out of suing you.”

  “Mr. Halavi?”

  “The man who owns the roasted chestnut concession. Thank heavens his insurance paid for a new umbrella. But I’d steer clear of roasted chestnuts for a while if I were you.”

  “Absolutely!” I assured her. “And I just want you to know that this little incident does not at all reflect my work ethic. If you hire me as a copywriter, I can guarantee you it will never happen again.”

  “I should hope not. Just be sure to leave your cat home on Bring Your Pet to Work Day,” she added with a wink.

  It suddenly occurred to me that she was awfully chipper for someone who’d just had an employee stabbed on her watch.

  In fact, never had I seen her hair quite so shiny or her skin so radiant.

  Death (Scotty’s, that is) certainly seemed to have agreed with her.